The Masquerade
by Lost-Girl-Flying-High
Summary: Elysia Magdalene is a woman of mystery. The beautiful new star of the Opera Populaire hides her face under porcelain masks and hides herself away from the world. But why? Erik wants to know, too. He has wondered why ever since this strange young woman waltzed her way into his opera house.
1. Chapter 1

Mask:

Noun- a covering for all or part of the face, worn to conceal one's identity.

Verb- to put on a mask; disguise oneself

I was a woman of illusion. Of smoke and mirrors. Of masquerades and sleights-of-hand.

My reputation preceded me and my mystery kept my legend alive, for such is human nature. We crave to know what we may not, and once it is revealed to us, we forget and carry on.

My talents gave me recognition, but their curiosity gave me remembrance.

I wore a mask at all times, except when I was performing, and even then, the heavy stage makeup masked my features almost equally.

I had reasons other than drawing intrigue from onlookers for hiding my face, of course. Ones which I preferred not to share, but as the carriage slowed to a halt in front of the esteemed Opera Populaire, I placed a mask on my face and checked in a hand-mirror that it was situated correctly. It was a gold mask with rich red filigree that was the exact inverse of my red dress with gold embroidery. My long raven hair tumbled down to the middle of my back in lazy ringlets, holding almost blue and purple hues in various places as the light struck it. I grinned, my red painted lips pulling up to reveal my straight, white teeth. It was a genuine smile, one of few. I finally had a chance here. A chance to start over. No more running, no more fear, no more hiding. I was determined to make Paris my home, whatever it took.

I stepped out of the carriage and onto the bustling street around me, garnering curious glances from onlookers and passersby as I walked up the stairs and into the famed opera house.

Immediately upon entering, I seemed to cause a stir among the ballet girls, who were rehearsing on the stage.

A woman, who presumed was Madame Giry, as she was the one I was instructed to seek out upon my arrival, and was told enough about to recognize, mainly by her stern, matronly expression as well as her cane and long black dress, banged her cane onto the wooden floor of the stage, silencing the fluttering chatter of the girls.

"Mademoiselle Magdalene, I presume? " she questioned, stepping towards me.

"Sì- I mean, oui," I blushed under my mask, how could I have been so stupid as to answer in Italian? This was France, for God's sake. "And you are Madame Giry, yes?"

The older woman nodded. "Yes, I am. I'll show you to the Messieurs' office. Come with me." With that, she turned swiftly on her heel and walked quickly towards the back of the opera house, and as I went to follow her, I could have sworn I saw the shadow of a man watching from the fifth box.

"Ah, Firmin, it appears that our lovely guest has arrived. Mademoiselle Magdalene, it is a pleasure to meet you, at last," He replied, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles, something I had come to learn was not an uncommon gesture in some countries.

"Oh non, Monsieur, I'm sure the pleasure is entirely mine. You have a lovely opera house, I do so look forward to performing in it," I replied, smiling politely. The managers seemed to thrive on flattery, I noted, tucking that little tidbit of information away for later use.

"And we look forward to hearing you Mademoiselle," He countered. "And as I understand it, you do more than just sing, I have heard you have several notable talents. Would you be so kind as to enlighten us as to the nature of these skills?"

I blushed, something I had learned to make myself do at some point over the years, giving the impression of bashfulness. "Certainly, Messieurs. As you know, I am a mezzo-soprano, but can sing either alto or soprano. Also,I am quite an exquisite dancer, if it is not too bold to say, I play the violin, piano, and harp, and I am a writer of music," I explained to the Messieurs, who seemed to get more excited with each word that tumbled from my lips.

"Perhaps you could sing something for us? Possibly something you have written?" He asked, and I felt quite obliged to comply. I nodded, and took a deep breath before beginning.

" Nascondere solo nel buio ,

tremante di paura della luce

La luce del sole è freddo come mi colpisce , Insensibile e inquietante come la morte

Aspetto che la luce del sole per uccidere me , Per trovare me prima che io possa correre

Ma io sprofondo di nuovo nell'ombra , e attendere che il buio a venire

La lune est mon gardien et ami , Elle me garde du soleil involontaire

La lune est mon gardien et ami , Elle me garde du soleil involontaire

J'appartiens à l'obscurité Il prétend ma vie comme sa propre

Nunca caminará en la luz del día , Se mezclan con los hijos de sol

Mi vida , aunque me temo que está vacío , Tráeme más placer que dolor

Nire iluntasunean me ezkutatuko dira betiko, Babesten ninduen hiltzaile eguzkia

Bakarrik joatea bezala itzalak I,

Ezagutzen dut etxean nago

Sé que estoy en casa

Je sais que je suis à la maison

So di essere a casa"

My eyes, though the Messieurs could not see them through my mask, had been closed throughout the entire piece. The song flowed from the deepest part of my soul and tore itself from my throat in my voice in its strange accent of many lands. I felt more than just the eyes and ears of the Messieurs and the Madame focused on me. It felt like there was someone else. Watching. Listening.

Finally, Monsieur Firmin spoke, ending the silence. My eyes fluttered open as he did so, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Mademoiselle, that was indeed quite lovely! Monsieur André and myself would be honored to have you perform in our production of Chalemeau's Hannibal, however, we haven't any roles left. If you should like to, we can include you in the chorus and as understudy to Carlotta, though I must warn you she may not exactly be pleased," He said and I beamed.

"Oh, thank you Messieurs! Thank you very much! I should love to be part of the production, even if I am only in the chorus!" I exclaimed, grinning madly.

The Messieurs seemed very pleased with my answer but something about her expression told me that Madame Giry was less than thrilled about the situation.

"Madame Giry, could you please take our new cast member to the costuming manager to be measured for her costume, then bring her back to the stage to begin learning the choreography," He told her.

She nodded curtly once before stalking away, giving me no choice but to trail behind her like a lost pup.


	2. AN NOT A CHARTER SORRY!

Little A/N here to clear things up:

I know it seems like Elysia is a Mary-Sue. Bear with me, she's not. She is a mezzo-soprano, which actually means she can song the higher range of alto notes, and the lower range of soprano notes. When trained, this vocal range is easy to expand, but currently, she can only sing in that range. She has been trained to dance since she was a tiny child, and that's why she's so good at it. Her other skills, the instruments, are all self taught. She's not classically trained by any means. And I know you guys don't understand why she wears the mask, and for the purposes of plot development, I can't tell you right now, so you'll just have to be patient. All I can tell you is that the reason she wears the mask is more mental than physical in terms of her scarring. That's not to say she's not a but scarred physically *insert evil laugh*.

Finally, all I can say is that the first chapter was more of a prologue to grab interest than it was an actually chapter that was meant to explain things.

I'll post the second chapter later today if I can, tomorrow if I can't! Adieu for now, my lovely readers!


	3. Chapter 2

Reaching the stage, it appeared that Madame Giry and myself had stepped straight into a rather massive commotion.

"-stop them 'appening? No! And you! You're as bad as 'im! 'These things do happen!' Well until you stop these things 'happening, this thing does not 'appen!" Carlotta screamed at the Messieurs, who looked rather bewildered. The dancers seemed to be scampering madly 'round the stage, looking up, as if in fear that something would fall on them at any moment.

In a rage, Carlotta finished her rant and dashed out of the opera house. As she did, the Messieurs assured themselves that she would return, but Madame Giry took the chance to inform them otherwise, as well as enlighten them on the demands of the Opera Ghost.

"Ridiculous! We'll have to cancel!" I hear one if the Messieurs say. I hated to agree, but Monsieur André seemed to be quite correct. The production was new, the lead had just abandoned the role, and the understudy had no time to learn the part.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." A blonde chorus girl piped up. She stood, pulling a brunette girl behind her.

"A ballet girl?" Monsieur Firmin questioned. But inevitably, the blonde woman and Madame Giry convinced the Messieurs to hear Christine.

As she began the aria, it was undeniable that she had an absolutely angelic voice, far surpassing my own. The beginning was a bit shaky, which I could not penalize her for, as her nervousness was indeed quite understandable.

It seemed everyone agreed that Christine was the clear choice to fill the role of Elissa, and by the arrival of evening, she was prepared to face the audience in the starring role.

As the show began, I took to wandering among the halls of the opera house. Upstairs, I had wandered for quite some time before seeing it. The 'it' in question was a door, unmarked except for a hole, where it appeared there had been a nail used to hang a sign or marker of some sort. Wondering what the curious room might hold, I reached toward the worn brass knob, twisting it until it turned no longer, pulled it towards me, and stepped inside before shutting it behind me. I turned away from the door to see what the room held, only to discover that it was no disused room, it was the aforementioned box five, preferred view of the fabled Phantom.

I gasped, realising exactly where I was, when a flash of movement caught my eye.

It was the man. The one I had seen watching from this very box when I arrived this morning!

"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur! Je suis désolé , je n'ai pas l'intention de s'immiscer!" I exclaimed, bowing my head and turning a vibrant shade of crimson beneath my mask.

Suddenly the man was standing directly in front of me. I felt his hand under my chin, forcing me to look up at him and meet his curious gaze. My oddly colored eyes appeared wide with fear, I'm quite sure.

He studied me for a moment, his eyes flashing across my face, most likely searching for the reason I wore a mask, just as I would have been doing to him, had my mismatched eyes not been too fixated on watching the movement of his own black ones, though he didn't know this because the constitution of my mask concealed my eyes from others, while maintaining my ability to see. All of my masks (as I had several and delighted in making them) had a very fine layer of lace over the eyes on the inside. The lace was close enough to my eyes that I could see through it.

Suddenly, the man pulled away my mask. Instinctively, I turned away, hiding my face.

"Please, Monsieur!" I begged softly. "Please return my mask! I need it!" I pled, near tears. My mask was my last defence. I could not bear to have my face seen by some one I did not know, for he would ask questions. Questions that I did not wish to answer. Not because I was afraid of them knowing the answers, but because I was still tormented by the story I would have to tell them.

Silently, I felt the man pull my hands gently from my face and replace them with my mask, tying the strings behind my head. I sighed in relief, feeling myself calm down enough to stop sobbing.

"Thank you, Monsieur," I told him, but Christine had begun sing again, and his attention had returned to her. It was easy to see that the man in the mask was infatuated with the girl. And why shouldn't he be? She was gorgeous, she was talented, she was innocent. I was glad to see that he loved this woman. I only hoped she felt the same. The world can be cruel to those who reside in the darkness, and that he had an angel to light his way made me smile.

I silently stepped away and exited box number five, something that would soon become routine.


	4. Chapter 3

_**Little A/N here: this chapter is dedicated to the awesome HalloweenSpell! Your review seriously made my day :) Now, I present chapter 3**_

For the rest of the show, I wandered aimlessly through the backstage of the house, exploring the halls, and occasionally hearing snippets of song or the rustling of the ballet girls' skirts as they rushed about. I didn't see the Phantom again, and I assumed that he was still watching Christine perform.

The show seemed to be ending, though, and I saw Christine be flocked by the dancers. They were all congratulating her, something that I would do when there weren't quite so many people. I don't do well with crowds.

After Madame Giry had taken all the dancers away to rehearse, I sought out Christine to tell her how wonderful she had been. I found her (previously Carlotta's) dressing room and raised my hand to knock on the door when I heard a voice. A man's voice. Christine was in her dressing room. Alone. With a man. How very scandalous.

I hoped for his sake that it was the Phantom, for they seemed to be speaking quite delightedly, but then I heard him suggest they go out to dinner. She argued the her Angel of Music would be angry, and I could only assume she meant the Phantom, but the man didn't heed her warning, and as he stormed out, my face turned pale. The man that Christine sounded quite infatuated with was not the Phantom.

I knocked, not waiting for an answer before entering.

"Christine, you mustn't go with him! You must stay and see the angel!" I begged her.

"What are you talking about, Mademoiselle? " she asked, looking quite confused.

"My name is Elysia, not Mademoiselle, and you must listen to me. I will tell that man-" she cut me off.

"-His name is Raoul. He's the Vicomte de Changy. He's not 'that man,'" Christine defended, assuming that I was in insinuating that she was seeing that man. I really didn't care what she was doing and with who, but she had to go to the Phantom today. She had to love him as he loved her. That was how things were supposed to work. And I was going to make sure it did work out that way.

"Whoever he is, you must stay. I will tell him that you are alright, but you must see your Angel!"

"How do you-"

"Now ' s not the time, I'll explain later!" I hushed her, rushing out the room and shutting it behind me.

I felt bad lying to the poor girl. I would be neither informing Monsieur le Vicomte of the soprano's whereabouts nor giving him any information on Miss Daaé in any form or fashion.

He needed to forget all about little Miss Christine, and she needed to forget about him. She had to love the Phantom, because loving someone and not having them love you back is the worst pain imaginable.

You finally find the light at the end of the tunnel. A way out of the darkness. But then the door slams shut just as you reach it. If you're lucky, it actually shuts all the way before you reach it, and you're just left pounding on the door until you give up, and still have a chance to find another way out. But if you aren't, you get halfway through before it slams shut and chops your arm off at the shoulder, leaving you to wander blindly in the dark tunnel, blood trailing behind you, until your vision starts to go black and you slowly, painfully bleed to death in a puddle of your own self pity. But that's just love. And that's why I actively avoid falling into it. But, since Phantom was clearly in love with Christine and I knew it, I felt obligated to help make sure that didn't happen to him because I knew exactly how it felt. And if Christine didn't love the Phantom, he needed to know before things got any worse for him.


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: Finally! Elysia's backstory! Mentions of rape, prostitution, and abuse, please do not read if you have a problem reading them!

Turning from the dressing room door, I walked down the hall with an overwhelming sense of confidence that I had done the right thing. That I had help assure that the Phantom would have a happier life, even if only a little more so.

The hall was narrow, lined with gleaming marble floor, walls panelled with glossy wood the color of ripe black-cherries, and dimly lit with gas lanterns that cast long shadows. It met with another hall at the end, and a frequent visitor to the opera house could easily navigate their way to an exit using them, which a few pe

ople did.

One such man, traveling alone and in a very curt, bustling manner, slammed into me from the side, knocking me harshly onto the stone floor. As the man turned to see what the clamor had been, I caught a glimpse of the man's face.

I fled, stumbling blindly through the halls just to get away. Air would not come. I was suffocating. My face burned. I had been mutilated. Mortified. There he was, laughing at me, cruelty gleaming in his eyes. I ran still through the opera house, one hand clutching my mask, the other pressed against the wall to keep me upright. The world around me was one big blur. My vision was swimming, my lungs couldn't keep up, my legs felt as though they were made of lead. And then I was falling. Falling deep into my own nightmares. But these nightmares were so painfully real.

I had been just 15 at the time, and living in Italy with my eldest brother, who was almost 15 years my senior and had moved out before I was even born, studying opera and performing in one of the houses in the ballet. I had left my mother and older brother in Switzerland to live with him. While there, I fell in love. He was the youngest son of the opera house's owner. His name was Adriano. He had wavy hair the color of chocolate, olive skin, and eyes the color of the sea after a storm. My whole heart and soul had belonged to him, and every waking moment spent with him brought me pure bliss. I was certain that I would spend the rest of my life with him, and he swore to me that he did and always would feel the same. We spent all of our time together, and he remained blissfully unaware of my brother and his drunken spiral into violent abuse. the day I turned sixteen, he came to me with a ring and a promise. That he would stay with me forever and that one day, he would make me his wife. I had never been so happy in my life.

But my perfect moment didn't last long.

That night, my brother came home late in the night, stumbling around and reeking of an unhealthy amount of alcohol. I was already in bed, asleep, and had been for quite some time. I felt cold air as the blankets were ripped from me. I woke, startled, and tried skuttling back away from him, but there he was, insistant. Unreasonable. His hands were everywhere. I tried to run. He grabbed me. I couldn't- couldn't get away, couldn't get out. He was everywhere.

Adriano was the one who found me the next morning, curled in a ball on the floor, lying in a pool of my own blood, sobbing incessantly. He tried to comfort me, convinced me to tell him what had happened, that he still loved me, no matter what. I made the mistake of telling him.

His father forbid our marriage, my brother turned me out, telling my mother I had fallen ill and passed away to cover his actions. From there, my life took a dark turn. I had nowhere to go, no one to ask for help from, no future.

So I did the only thing I could to survive.

I sold myself. I was eventually picked up as the mistress and entertainer of a nobleman. As far as my life could have gone, it was a rather splendid turn. I wanted not for food, clothing, anything I would need. However, the man was very jealous, and liked marking "his" property as his own. on my first day in his employ, he summoned me to the kitchen, where I found him facing a fire, which didn't strike me as all too odd. He asked me to take a seat in a chair facing him, and close my eyes. Considering I didn't wish to be sent back onto the streets, I complied.

He approached me, holding in his right hand a small key, the handle being a wrought-iron heart with intricate details carved into it. He held the tine-end with an oven-rag, walking quickly because it was white-hot and he needed to get this over with before it cooled. As soon as he reached me, he instantly pressed the thumb-sized key into the flesh directly to the left of my left eye. I jerked away, but it was too late. His brand would permanently mar my pale face.

I traveled with the man to a city just three weeks trip from Paris the next year. We stayed in a small inn, and he left me there while he went out drinking. That night, once he had finally succumbed to the alcohol in his system, I slit his throat where he lay and took the money that he had on him. I put on the mask that I had made to obscure the scar he had given me and left the inn, hiring several cabs to take me to Paris and the Opera Populaire, where I would finally be free of my past.

But just as I had gotten away, here he was, my eldest brother, back destroying my life. This time, I had been lucky enough to escape unrecognized, but I would have to take care not to be seen by him again.

I hadn't looked where I was going when I fled, and when I woke, I found myself in an unfamiliar place. And there was the man in the mask, pounding madly on an organ. Which means, the Phantom must have found me. His cloak was over me like a blanket. But my mask, where was it? My hands flew to my face. It was gone. I looked frantically and found it lying next to me, which could only mean one thing. The Phantom had seen my face. He knew.


End file.
